sniffing paints
by theeflowerchild
Summary: SasuSaku. Threeshot. teacher!Sasuke. She was more than just a girl with a remarkable talent, a seemingly perfect boyfriend, and a mysterious home-life, and he was more than just a teacher seeking to help a student better herself for college—he just didn't know it yet.
1. part I

**sniffing paints**  
>part I of III<p>

theeflowerchild

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><p>TW: contains emotionaldomestic/sexual abuse, self harm, and teacher-student relationship past that of a friendship

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><p>"<em>I am in love,"<em> she often thinks, _"this is it."_

He's the most beautiful boy she has ever seen in her entire life. He is tall, and lean, with long, lanky limbs that stretch his skin across thin bones. His eyes are sunken and swollen, green like broken beer bottles left on the side of the road; they shine like emeralds when he's not tired, which isn't often. He is exhausted and he is restless, and he seems like he never stops twitching, with the skin under his eyes stained purple with fatigue. His hair is red like hourglass sand, wild and messy and she can imagine her fingers running through it while she kisses his thin lips, his alabaster skin stained pink like her hair—

He is everything she wants in a boy, everything she _needs_ in a boy; he is smart, and seemingly sweeter than he looks, like dumplings or vegetables, and he understands. He understands the hollowness in her chest, he understands the ache she feels in-between her diaphragm and her esophagus, the taste of bile that bubbles in her throat, bitter and familiar. He understands her glassy eyes, her twitchy fingers, and the crows feet that she's too young to have.

And he tells her he loves her.

He pushes her bubblegum-pink hair out of her eyes, eyes that are greener than his, eyes that are not yet dead inside, eyes that shine like emeralds no matter her state of being, eyes that betray her whole, and he smiles. "I love you," he tells her, "no matter your faults. You are beautiful." And she falls for him.

She falls for his bony fingers, his dirty hair, his big boots, his red pickup truck, his fascination with death, his awkward smile, his raspy voice, and his tiny heart. She falls for his toothy grins, his cold skin, his long, thin scars, his tiny nose, and his big ears. She falls for his breaths, the spaces between his fingers, the crevice between his left arm and his body, the smell of his cologne, and the way he speaks to her, cryptically, earnestly, often like he's pleading, but never asking.

He touches his calloused, cool hand against her warm cheek, rubbing his long thumb, touching the tip of her eyelashes, the bridge of her nose, and the bow of her lips. She smiles. "I love you, too."

* * *

><p>"Hello class." He placed his messenger bag down on the oak desk, a soft thud filling the soundless classroom. All the students were silent in the appearance of a stranger. "My name is Sasuke Uchiha, but you can call me Sasuke. We're all equals here." He turned around and began writing his name on the board, the sickening noise of nails resounding through the chalk. "I will be replacing your past teacher, Kurenai Sarutobi, due to her maternity leave until further notice."<p>

He looked over the classroom and immediately sighed; these classes, the music and arts, often attract two types of people: those looking for an easy grade,

And those looking for a better soul.

"I'm happy to be able to work with all of you this year, but you _have_ to put in the effort," he continued. His voice was like silk, somehow misplaced on his body, tenor and misused. "I will give you the attention and dedication you think you deserve."

A girl raised her hand, all dark hair and dough-eyes. He nodded towards her. "Will Mrs. Sarutobi be back this year?"

"I'm not sure," he answered. "I am simply the messenger, you'll have to email her yourself if you wish to find out any further information." He looked over the sea of unfamiliar faces. "Any more questions?"

His response was the empty howl of the wind through the open windows, toying with the heat of what was left of the summer. His heart was pounding in his chest, tearing at his ribcage and fighting the butterflies in his stomach for calmness. He could feel the sweat gathering at his hairline as his eyes avoided contact with the students in front of him. He was nervous, and this was his first teaching job, but he would never let the students know that.

He sat in his chair and crossed his legs, pursing his lips as he searched his bag for the attendance sheet. When he eventually found it, despite the two-dozen pairs of eyes boring into him, he laid it flat on his desk and licked his thin, dry lips. "Now, before I take attendance," he tried, scanning a certain few in the class, "I'm just going to share with you that this class has a _strict_ curriculum. You are being tested on not only your skills, but the lessons you have learned throughout your art career and how you are able to put them to use. You will be using multiple mediums, including paints and sculpture-work, and there will be assigned projects for you to do by the board of education, _including _a thesis." He saw a few jaws fall, gaping at his statement. All he was saying _was_ true, perhaps slightly exaggerated, but he was only stating the syllabus. He smirked. "Now, is there anybody who will not be staying in this class?"

A handful of students immediately stood up, gathered their books against their chests, and were out of the classroom before he could even take their faces into memory. A few others took a moment or two to consider the class and their ability to keep up with the workload before, too, standing up and removing themselves from the classroom.

He sighed and counted who were left, only to frown. "Thirteen," he mused allowed. What an unlucky number. "Now, you're all sure you want to be here?" he asked one more time.

He received a few nods, and a few who didn't even bother to acknowledge him.

A paused a moment before saying, "great." He smirked and leaned across the desk, cradling his chin in his hand. "Welcome to Advanced Placement Studio in Art."

* * *

><p>Sakura was nothing if not a creature of habit; she was very set in her ways. She liked things the way they were, even if they weren't the best thing for her. She liked knowing what was going to happen next, not having to anticipate anything except maybe what her mother was cooking for dinner, or what would set off her father tonight, or even what she was going to wear tomorrow—this was the extent to which Sakura enjoyed difference and, even so, if she could wear the same outfit everyday, and her mother could make spaghetti for dinner every night, Sakura would, perhaps, be even more content with her abysmal existence.<p>

"I don't like Sasuke," she admitted to Gaara that afternoon, laying in his bed. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, her front teeth nestling into the familiar scars that resided already. She reveled in the metallic taste.

"Who's Sasuke?" he asked, immediately looking up from his homework and piercing her gaze. "Did he do something to you?"

"No, no!" she quickly defended. She laughed awkwardly. "It's nothing like that, he's the teacher that replaced Mrs. Sarutobi after she had the baby over the summer."

"Oh." His eyes went back to his notebook and he started scrawling a few words once again. "Why don't you like him?"

She shrugged and thought for a moment, before listing, "he's not Mrs. Sarutobi, he doesn't know any of us, he doesn't know our styles, or the paints we prefer, or our names—"

He cut her off with a laugh. "Maybe you should tell him, then, and give him a chance." He suddenly stood from his chair, and moved over toward the bed where his girlfriend was laying. He took a seat on the edge, easing himself next to her as to not frighten or shock her. She still jumped a little. "Someone had to replace her."

"I know."

"Maybe you should drop the class?" he asked.

She shook her head frantically, her rosy hair flying across her face. "No, absolutely not!" she yelled. "Art… is my life."

He frowned. "I thought we were your life."

She laughed and smiled, but her eyes betrayed her. He didn't notice. "O-Of course we are, Gaara, I love you—you know what I-I meant what I said that!" she defended.

His frown was immediately replaced by a small smile. "I love you, too." He rolled on his side, facing her flat body; his eyes scanned over her, almost hungrily, certainly territorially, but with a lack of adoration. He licked his lips. "I love you so much." He scooted towards her and let one of his hard hands touch the exposed skin between her t-shirt and her jeans, as soft as satin and white like snow. Her heart began beating quickly. "You know that, right?"

"Yes, I do," she assured him and flinched away from his touch.

He frowned. "Then why are you moving away from me?" he growled.

She laughed. "I'm not, I'm not!" she moved towards him, but her body language created distance. "I want to be right by you!" She took his hand and placed it against her waist, right before her jeans. "See? See?"

He nodded and nestled his head in the crook of her neck. His hair tickled her cheek, her ear, while his fingers traced circles on her waist, dangerously closing in on the hem of her jeans. He inhaled her scent—baby-powder and roses, he always thought—and grazed her skin lightly with his lips. "You're so beautiful, Sakura. You know that, right?"

"Thank you," she whispered breathlessly, feeling his lower half push up against her thigh. She swallowed the lump in her throat and felt tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, Gaara."

"You're welcome." He grabbed her wrists with his cold, rough hands, carefully pushing them above her head, before moving from his side and pushing himself on top of her. He traced her body with his eyes, every single curvature, from the roundness of her cheeks, to the nape of her neck, to the swell of her chest, to the hills of her stomach, to the curve of her hips, all the way down to the thick of her thighs and her thin ankles. She was awkward, tall, and more heavy than not, but she was beautiful, and she was his. His eyes finally fell to her own.

She moved too quickly for him to see the tears ready to spill from her wide eyes. "G-Gaara, I'm sorry." She pushed him off, and heard him grunt. "It's late, you know my father, I have to go—"

"I understand." He didn't. He was angry. "I'll walk you to the door."

"Thank you, thank you." She quickly pushed her lips against his, and rode her thigh against his groin, tempting his appetite. He moaned, and he would forgive her. "I love you, I'm sorry," she apologized, and she meant it. He convinced her she meant it, he always did.

He stood up and shrugged. "It's fine, I love you too." He captured her hand in his own, intertwining their fingers, and walked her to his front door in silence.

* * *

><p>"You're late, Sakura," her mother reprimanded her with a frown. "What did I tell you?"<p>

Sakura felt tears begin to well near her waterline. "Mother, I'm _so_ sorry, you have no idea. I rushed, but there was traffic, and—"

She stopped when her mother sighed. "It's fine, your father isn't home yet, just set the table, please."

Sakura nodded and gathered three plates from the cupboard, along with three forks from the drawer beneath. She carried them to the kitchen and quickly set them up just the way her father liked them, with the forks to the left. She gathered three glasses and placed them to the right, like her father had told her to do, along with napkins under the plates, and a piece of bread. "Mom, I'm done!"

"Alright, just sit in your seat, please!" her mother shouted back.

She did exactly as she was told, careful not to move anything, and tucked herself in closely. Her elbows did not touch the table, and she kept silent.

The door to their apartment clicked.

Her father sauntered in, briefcase in hand, long, black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and suit incredible neat, as if it had just been ironed. He was undeniably pale, with skin like marble, and his light, light barely green eyes looked sickeningly yellow as the scanned the kitchen. He apathetic face twisted into a smile. "Sakura, my beautiful daughter, how are you this evening?" He threw his suitcase on the ground, next to the door, and moved towards his daughter with grace and ease, like a snake, slithering across the wood floors. He kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair. He then eased into his own seat at the head of the table, pulled himself close to his plate, and let his elbows lay on the arm rests. "How was your day, baby girl?"

She smiled softly. "It was great, father. And how was yours?"

He leaned slightly towards her and smirked. "It was fine. Daddy got a lot of work done." He leaned into his chair and smelled the air around him, intertwining his fingers across his chest. "Tsunade, sweetheart, what are you cooking? It smells delightful!"

Sakura sighed, and thought, _"Maybe, just maybe, tonight will be a good night."_

She heard her mothers melodic voice float from the kitchen into the dining room, "just spaghetti and sauce, baby!"

He nodded, even though his wife could not see, and turned towards his daughter with a smirk. "Let's just hope Mommy didn't overcook the pasta. She can be so stupid sometimes."

Sakura didn't move.

No less than a minute later, her mother brought in a big bowl of spaghetti, covered in thick, red sauce. It smelled wonderful, full of fresh herbs and garlic; her mother was a lovely cook, Sakura always thought. In fact, her cooking was never a problem until maybe she was about twelve.

Sakura was not born into ruins. In fact, Sakura was a very happy child, with two parents who loved each other very, _very_ much. She loved to paint, and sing, and draw, and her parents always took her to the park, where they would barbecue, and her parents would kiss and hug as they watched her. It was a normal life, sure, but it was a happy life, and Sakura was a healthy, happy daughter to two wonderful parents.

When Sakura turned seven, her father died.

Her father was an amazing writer, her mother always told her, such a smart man, with such a drive. She remembers her father to be incredibly goofy, and large, with big hands, and long legs, and big arms. He was very handsome, in his day, with long, red tattoos staining his cheeks, and a big smile.

When she was around eleven, she once asked her mom what he was like, and her mother sighed, and said, "your father was…" she trailed off and thought for a moment, clucking her tongue. "Your father was warm."

Her father was warm.

That same year, her mother met her step-father, Orochimaru. He was nice, at first, and very rich, always buying Sakura gifts, but he always rubbed her the wrong way. He bought her mother the biggest, most beautiful ring when he asked her to marry him. She said yes.

It took him less than a day after the marriage to assert himself as her father, a month after that to start screaming, and less than a year for him to start hitting her mother.

"Why, Tsunade, my love," he chirped with a smirk. "That looks simply delightful."

"Yes, Mom!" Sakura agreed with a smile. "It looks and smells great."

Her mother blushed, and smiled. "Oh stop, I've been making this sauce for years. Just dig in!" She gathered the tongs in her hands and fished for her husbands bowl, giving him a large helping. "Here you go, sweetie, enjoy." She then served her daughter, and, lastly, herself.

The both watched carefully, playing with their food, as he spun the spaghetti in his fork. He slowly lifted it to his lips, a proper eater more than anything else, and began chewing. His face visibly twisted into a grimace.

Sakura felt her heart drop.

He laughed and stood from his seat. "Tsunade, can I ask you something?"

"O-Of course, my love," she stammered.

"What's the only thing I ever ask you to do when I come home?" he asked. "What do I ask you to have ready for me?"

"Dinner," she answered. "You ask me to cook dinner for you."

"Correct." He pushed his chair out from behind him and stepped away from the table. "And what's the one thing I ask the dinner to be?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, butterflies crashed in her stomach. "Edible."

"Then what," he raised his hand, "the fuck is this?" and crashed the plate into the wall. Spaghetti and sauce stained the white paint, and the plate shattered against the hard floors, echoing throughout the otherwise silent apartment.

"I—I'm sorry!" she immediately defended, earnestly, honestly. Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean to offend you. I love you. You know I'd _never—"_

"If you'd _'never,'_ then why the hell does it keep happening?" He sauntered towards his wife and gather her cheeks in his hands. "Please, dear, enlighten me."

"I'm sorry—"

"I _said,_ answer the fucking question!" He slapped her across the face. She fell to the ground and immediately began quietly weeping, nursing her cheek with her hands. He turned towards his daughter. "Sakura, go upstairs."

"But Orochimaru—"

He cut her off. "Do you dare defy me?" he questioned. She shook her head. "Then go upstairs, now."

She ran right out of the room, tail between her legs, and straight towards the stairs. She paused for a moment at the foot of them, listening carefully, only to receive the sound of a loud '_slap!' _and a cry from her mother. Her own tears started spilling down her cheeks, soaking her t-shirt as she ran up the stairs. She quietly opened her door—her father didn't _like_ noise—and closed it behind her without so much as a rush of wind.

She immediately hit the ground, weeping into her own hands quietly. She pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them, cuddling her face into her jeans. They became sopping went, but it didn't affect her.

From ceiling to floor, Sakura's room was covered—in photos, in posters, in sketches, and in canvas. There were paint supplies across her floor, from tubes, to brushes, to etching knives, and naked canvases begging to be clothed.

It took only a moment for her to gather herself and place herself before her canvas, already painted with delicate, grayscale flowers. The petals danced across the canvas, growing from the blank ends, falling into endless white.

She took the etching knife, carefully pulled up her sleeves, tore a thin line through the skin on her wrist, and pushed the cut up against the canvas.

* * *

><p>"Sakura Haruno?" She heard her name being called. "Sakura Haruno?" She quickly looked up from her sketch book. Her teacher was staring at her from across the classroom at his desk. "Do you know how many times I just called your name?" he asked.<p>

She shook he heard. "No, I'm sorry."

A few kids in the class laughed. He sighed and ran a hand through his inky hair. "It's fine, I just need to see you after class."

She pursed her lips. "I can't, I have class right after—"

"I'll write you a pass, then," he told her. "I want to go over something with you."

Now, she sighed. "Okay." She turned back towards her sketchbook and continued the outline of their first project. Every time she messed up, rather than start over, like most people, she'd simply draw right over her lines. It's something her father used to do with his writing._ "Always keep what you think is wrong,"_ he'd tell her, _"because you never know when it will be right."_

Before she knew it, the bell had rang, loudly disrupting her from her sketch. She frowned and felt her stomach flip, unsure of whether or not it was because she had to stop sketching, or because she had to talk to her teacher.

She slowly gathered her things, waiting for all the students to file out, before approaching her teachers desk. He was looking at something on the computer, probably attendance, and had his thick, black glasses fixated on the tip of his nose.

Now, being able to see him up close, she could tell how handsome he really was. He was a man: broad shoulders, a long neck, large hands, and long legs. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, almond-shaped, and warm like lava. He had high cheek bones, a thin nose, and dry lips, the features of an aristocrat, with skin like snow and freckles. When she was finally at the desk, he turned towards her and offered a sliver of a smile. "Sorry if I embarrassed you in front of everyone, I didn't mean to disrupt you. You're quite shy, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "I wasn't embarrassed." She ignored his question.

He took his glasses off and laid them on the desk in front of him. "I think you and I are very alike, Sakura," he tried.

She didn't respond.

He sighed. "Anyway, I was going through everyone's portfolios from last year," he paused for a moment, "well, those who didn't drop, and I came across yours."

"What about it?" she asked.

He leaned back in his chair and intertwined his fingers together, laying them in his lap, and smirked. "You, Sakura Haruno, are _very_ talented."

She paused, and then raised a delicate, pink eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "Your work is technically beautiful, and beyond that, invokes an incredible emotional response," he explained. "Catharsis."

"I know the word," she responded.

He rolled his eyes and leaned on the desk, towards her. "You are better than some people I _graduated_ with."

Her cheeks were slightly rosy. "You don't mean that—"

"I mean it," he assured her. "You really know how to evoke emotion, which is especially hard as a grayscale painter." He opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a large folder, full of photos. They were her paintings. He flicked through them and found a certain one, a painting of a silhouette of a man holding a girl on his shoulders, with a splatter of red across the middle. "You're… incredible," he whispered, looking at the painting more than at her.

She coughed.

He looked up and felt his cheeks warm, remembering she was there. "Sorry." He smiled softly. "With a little bit of tutoring, you could get into any college you wanted. Your portfolio is already phenomenal."

She shrugged. "I don't really want to go to college."

The look that surfaced on his face was more than simple surprise, but upset. "Wait, what?" he asked, quickly. "You don't want to go to college? _Why?"_

"I'm not that good," she reminded him, or herself, she wasn't sure. "And I just don't really foresee college in my future." "_I cannot leave my mother alone with that monster."_

He sighed, again. _"She's something,"_ he thought, _"what a piece of work." _He offered her a smile. "Alright, how about this…" he trailed off, thinking, and then continued, "how about if you let me tutor you during your study hall—"

"No, it's fine, really—"

"—and I'll give you an A for the class." He smirked. She was going to get an A with or without his help, but she didn't have to know that. "And, I'll guarantee you a six out of six from the state on your portfolio."

She snorted. "You can't promise something like that."

"I'm not done," he reminded her. "And if you get that six, you have to promise me you'll look into colleges."

She grimaced. Could she promise that?

"And if you don't, I'll leave you the hell alone," he finished. "How does that sound?"

"_An A sounds great,"_ she thought, _"It'll definitely pick up my grades… And I'd be stupid to turn down personal, free tutoring. I could… become incredible," _she imagined what her paintings could look like with a little bit of constructive criticism, and some tweaking, before frowning, _"But I have no chance of going to college, no matter how much I want to,"_ her face visibly fell, _"I can't leave my mom." _She bit her lip. "I can't, I'm sorry," she said, and ran for the door.

Before she could leave, he shouted, "the offer stands as long as you want to accept it!"

* * *

><p>A month went by, and they were already starting a new project, awaiting their grades. Summer was slowly turning into a cool fall, the leaves littering the ground like a blanket. School was officially in full-swing, with Halloween rounding the corner, and winter jackets surfacing from the bottoms of closets.<p>

"Sakura," a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts, obviously angered, "you didn't come to my locker this morning."

She turned around to see the frowning face of her boyfriend, obviously exhausted and grumpy. She mustered the sunniest smile she could. "Gaara, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," he cut her off, venom in his voice. "I understand that you have all your other friends to run off to."

She frowned.

"Oh wait, that's right!" His face became even darker. "No, you don't. You only have me, so I don't understand why you couldn't just show up to my fucking locker this morning."

"Gaara, I'm sorry—"

He snorted. "Cut the crap, Sakura. Just don't be late for lunch, I'm really getting sick of your shit." He stalked off towards his class, most kids walking around him or blatantly going out of their way to avoid him.

She looked around and no one seemed to take pity, or even take notice of the scene that had just unfolded. She frowned, only to sigh and slam her locker door shut. This had become the usual. One wrong move, and Gaara was not happy, not one bit. She was stepping on eggshells, and Gaara was right, he was the only friend she had, the only person she could turn to, even if it meant subjecting herself to these outburst of anger, or physical contact she didn't want.

She had nowhere to go.

Empty-handed except for her sketchbook, she walked quietly towards the studio. It was at the back of the building, one of the quietest areas of the school—arguably quieter than the library—and always just under five minutes to get to from her locker.

She walked into the classroom just as the bell and rang, and walked quietly to her seat, all the way in the back.

"Alright, guys, grades are in for your first project," Sasuke announced at the beginning of class. He received no response. "Whoa, guys, don't get _too _excited," he muttered sarcastically under his breath. Why did art kids have to be so brooding?

And then he remembered how he was in high school and refrained from making a comment.

He trailed around the classroom with a pile of critiques in his hands. "Deidara, nice work… Ino, could've been better… Kankuro, nice work… Hinata, not too bad…" and then he landed on Sakura and smirked, dropping her paper in front of her. "Would you look at that?" She looked down at the sheet and immediately frowned. "Only a B."

She frowned. "You can't do that."

"Oh, but I can." And he continued past her, giving the rest of the students their grades.

It was true, he was the teacher, he could do whatever the hell he wanted, but they both knew her project was worth an A. He was toying with her, playing dirty, trying to get her to accept his proposal.

And it was working.

As soon as the bell rang, Sakura ran up to his desk. "Is this going to be happening all year?"

He feigned aloofness. "Whatever could you be talking about?"

"Oh, cut the crap!" she said. He held in a laugh. "We both know what I'm talking about."

He shrugged. "It doesn't have to happen all year. In fact," he took the sheet from her and grabbed the red pen lying innocent on his desk, "I could fix this right now."

Her frown deepened. "You're _impossible."_

"That's ironic," he deadpanned. "Anyway, do what you want," he handed the sheet back to her, "but if you are going to do what you want, I'm going to do what I want, too."

She sighed, defeated. "Alright, what if I… edited the deal a little?"

He perked up. "Go on."

"I'll meet with you every day _after_ school," she said. After school would be much better, she'd be cutting down the time she spends with Gaara, and making it just in time for dinner.

Now it was his turn to frown. "Sakura, I don't know if I can do that—"

She cut him off, _"Please."_

He sighed and shrugged, at least he had won. He offered her a smile. "After school it is."

* * *

><p>When Gaara met Sakura, it was not her hair that first caught his eye, hanging in loose, dusty-rose curls, with bangs tickling her eyelids. It was not her swollen, emerald-green eyes that nearly stole half of her face, nor her tiny button nose. It was not her tiny lips, or her large chest, or the few freckles she had staining her bridge, her arms, her legs. It was not her long, chubby legs, or her sharp elbows, or even her sweet voice.<p>

No, it was her hands.

For her height, for her weight, for her age, Sakura's hands were overwhelmingly small. She had short, stout fingers, and chubby palms, and tiny little finger nails painted a dark color. They soft on the outside, and dried out on the inside, littered with tiny little scars he didn't dare ask about. They were covered in ink and paint, and smelled different from the rest of her, like lotion, and they were her creators. They made the things she thought, they painted the landscapes, the silhouettes, the still-life's, and the sketches. They created her loopy, messy handwriting, and never dotted the eyes. They drew her two's like cursive Q's, and crossed her T's and sevens. Her hands were wise. Her hands were beautiful.

Gaara wanted to hold them, to let his fingers dance around hers, and let his thumb run against her soft skin. He wanted to watch them as they painted, to see them glide across canvas like skates on ice, to watch them as they sketched in her little marble notebooks in class, rather than take her loopy notes. He wanted to watch them touch his skin, graze his arms, leave traces of fire down his chest, tickle his cheeks with warm fingertips.

He wanted them to interact with his long, bony, skinny fingers, to compliment them like no other hand could. He wanted her hands to fall for his while they strummed a guitar, strummed her heartstrings. He wanted her hands to watch in amazement while his created choppy, neat handwriting, or drew terrible little drawings in his spirals. He wanted her hands to beg his for more, to crave his touch, to starve and ache at the thought of his fingers dragging across her skin, like ink on paper.

He couldn't do with his hands what she did with paint, but he could do the same with his on her body, and he wanted to show her that.

"Sakura?" he asked. She was laying in his bed—she always loved his bed, the mattress was hard, and the sheets were cool—with her limbs tangled, staring intently at his white, chipping ceiling; she looked broken, he thought.

She turned towards him and offered him a small smile. "Yes?"

"What…" he trailed off, and then pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, eyebrows knitted. "What are you thinking?"

She raised an eyebrow, and stared at him a moment, and when he didn't react, she stared back up at the ceiling and shrugged. "Class."

He frowned. She wasn't thinking about him? Why did he feel like he was always thinking about her, but he never crossed her mind? He bit his tongue and decided to ask, "What about class?"

She sighed. "Is there a reason you're asking this?"

He shot her a venomous glare. "Just answer the question, I'm trying to have a fucking conversation with you. Is that a problem?"

She held her breath for a moment, and then said, "I'm thinking about Art Class, I'm going to have to start staying after a little to get all my work done."

He froze. "Wait, staying after classes?" he asked. "Like, after school? When you're supposed to be here, spending time with me?"

She sat up and finally made eye contact with him. "Gaara, I don't have a choice, you know I can't fail the class."

"Why can't you?" he questioned. "It's just some stupid art class, right? I thought you weren't going to college anyway!"

She winced at the jab, something she had told him in confidence. Her choice on college wasn't something she wanted, it was something she had to do. "I think we both know if my grades start falling, whether or not I go to college, my father will _not_ be happy."

"Who cares?" he snapped. "It's not like he's your real fucking father anyway!"

"My mother's functioning body cares, Gaara," she quipped back. She shot him a glare that could have defeated an army, but he did not wither. "I don't have a choice in the matter, and I only have to stay after until four, so we'll have two hours together!" she reasoned. "And weekends!"

"Two hours!?" he shouted. He stood from his chair, he stood over her. She loved Gaara's size, his height, because, at five-foot-six, and slightly chubby, Gaara still managed to make her feel tiny, but at times like this, he made her feel _small._ "Is that all I'm worth to you? Two fucking hours?"

"No, Gaara, that's not it!" she tried again, she felt the tears welling in her eyes, and the bile bubbling in her throat. "I don't have a choice, otherwise, I'll fail! My grades will _drop!"_ Her chest began constricting, aching. "I don't _want_ to do this, I _have_ to!"

"Sakura, why do you always have to pull shit like this?" He stepped closer to her. "Why do you always have to put this relationship in _jeopardy?"_ Another step. "What's your fucking _problem? _I thought you loved me!"

"I do, I do, I do—"

"Apparently not." He took one last step closer, looming over her body. "God, Sakura, do you want me to hurt you?" he asked. "Are you asking me to, to ruin this relationship? To…" He raised his hand slightly, she flinched. "To…" He took a step back.

"Gaara…?" she trailed off, and held her breath.

He took another step back and lowered his hand. "Nothing, never mind, that's fine. You don't have a choice," he said it more for himself than for her, "you don't have a choice. You'll fail if you don't, and your father will be mad."

She nodded her head. "Yes, very mad."

He sighed and took his final steps back, landing in his chair. He ran his long fingers through his hair, tangling his spikes, and frowned. "I'm sorry, Sakura, I just love you so much," he told her. "So much it hurts."

She nodded her head again. "I know, I love you too."

He looked up at her with wet eyes, his cheeks flushed, his eyebrows knitted. He was a mess. "I would never heart you."

She nodded her head again. "I know."

He looked back down at his lap. "I'm sorry."

She nodded her head once more. "I know, it's fine."

He stood and walked over toward her, causing her to flinch, but he took no notice. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back down onto the bed with him, her back against his chest. He let his face lay comfortably in the crook of her neck, and intertwined his fingers with her open hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She nodded. "I know, it's fine."

* * *

><p>Sasuke sighed. It was already a little after the last bell, and his student hadn't shown up. <em>"What if she's not coming?"<em> he thought, _"What if this is a waste of time?"_ He bit his lip and shook his head. _"No, no, she said she'd come, she'll come."_

Just as he thought that, ten minutes late, she sauntered in. He frowned. "You're late, Sakura."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry, I had something I had to do," she explained. She sat at one of the front desks, laying her stuff on the floor, at least ten-feet away from him.

He chuckled. "What are you doing over there? Pull up a chair," he told her. He patted his desk for added affected.

She grimaced before grabbing a chair and dragging it across the front of the class, right next to his desk. She was never one to sit in the front row, let alone right at the teacher's desk, but she didn't really have a choice in the matter. She sat next to him and looked over his desk; he was very organized, save for the little calendar he had marked to smithereens in loopy, messy handwriting. He had a dark blue cup full of pens, pencils, and a few expensive markers, a little notepad stationed next to his computer filled with his scrawl, and a little picture frame in the top right corner, decorated with little hearts, cradling a picture of him and a gorgeous girl with fiery red hair and dark, dark eyes.

"Who's she?" she blurted out before she could help herself. "She's beautiful."

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" he agreed, staring carefully at the photo. "She's my girlfriend."

Sakura was surprised, looking into his eyes that were devoid any sort of emotion akin to adoration. In fact, they seemed empty, so she asked, "Do you love her?"

He laughed. "You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

She shrugged. "Only when I have a reason to."

He held his breath and paused before saying, "I think I did, months ago," he admitted, "but maybe not anymore. Or, maybe so."

She nodded. "I see."

"Either way, it's not why were here, is it?" he asked, lightening the mood slightly. "Why don't you pull out your sketchbook and let me look through it?"

She raised one, fine eyebrow and nearly choked. "Um, excuse me? You want to see my _sketch book?"_

"I want to see your process," he told her.

"Can't you just look at my old stuff and tell me what I did wrong?" she asked.

He laughed—when he did, it was sort-of breathless, and hollow, she noticed, like he wasn't used to laughing, like he wasn't used to joy—and rolled his eyes. "It's not what you did wrong, Sakura, it's what you can do better."

"Yeah, whatever." She swatted him away with a hand. "You can't see my sketchbook."

"Then I guess you can't see that A, either…" he trailed off, smirking.

She shot him a glare. "That's blackmail."

"No, that's teaching," he explained with a wink.

With her glare in tow, she got up and walked back toward the desk she had left her stuff at. She fished through her messenger bag, looking for a tiny, Moleskine notebook—one of many—before coming across her newest one, the white one. She walked back towards him and thrusted it towards him. "Here." She sauntered back towards her chair and nearly through herself into it, visibly annoyed.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm not trying to embarrass you, I just want to help you."

"Yeah, yeah," she, again, brushed him off. "Just… Don't say anything stupid."

He smirked. "I'll try not to." He immediately flipped open the book, to which he saw her name, scrawled in black ink, and the year. Underneath it was a tiny drawing of a man's face, with long, thin lines on his cheeks, and wild hair on his head. He flipped the page, and saw many, delicate drawings of bleeding-heart-flowers in grayscale, save for a long, thin line of red across the page—something he noticed was common in much of her work. He flipped through the pages, each grayer than the next, some still life's, some silhouettes, some sketches of faces, and some sketches of bodies without faces, before he noticed something. "You draw right over your errors."

She nodded.

"Why?" he asked. "Why do you do that?"

"My father used to tell me,_ 'always keep what you think is wrong, because you never know when it will be right,'"_ she explained, with a small smile.

He stared at her for a moment; he'd never seen her smile like that, with such honesty. She was a pretty girl, it didn't take anyone special to notice that, but she was an absolutely stunning girl when she smiled like that.

It fell. "So I don't erase anything, just in case. My father used to do that with his writing, he always wrote in a notebook and crossed out is words with a thin line of pencil, just in case he ever needed them again."

He tore his eyes from here. "That's smart," he agreed. "I'll keep that in mind. If anything, it makes for a cool sketch."

She shrugged. "I guess."

He continued flipping through her work, careful not to smudge any of the charcoal drawings or tear any of the thin pages. When he finally finished flipping through, he said, "These…" he thought for a moment, for deciding on, "are painful."

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Not painful as in, 'painful to look at,'" he corrected himself, "but as in… they evoke pain. They're very beautiful, Sakura." He handed her back her sketch book.

"Thank you," she said.

"Where did you learn to draw like this?" he asked. "Where does this all come from?"

She bit her lip and thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I've been drawing ever since I can remember."

"People don't just create this raw emotion, though!" he argued. "Your drawings are very powerful, Sakura."

"Thank you," she said again.

He pursed his lips for a moment, and then clucked his tongue. "Do you not want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," she whispered.

He stared at her for a moment, and then nodded. "I guess there isn't." He sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Can I ask you one more question, then?"

She nodded her head.

"Why do you only paint in black and white?" he asked.

"Because I don't see in color."

* * *

><p>This was posted to another account, but I removed it, edited it, and posted it here. Please read and review, the next few parts will be up soon. The more you review the quicker I update, and I'd appreciate it. Thanks!<p>

Peace.


	2. part II

**sniffing paints**  
>part II of III<p>

theeflowerchild

* * *

><p>TW: contains emotionaldomestic/sexual abuse, self harm, and teacher-student relationship past that of a friendship

* * *

><p>IN HONOR OF SASUSAKU BEING TOTALLY CANON A LA CHAPTERS 699 AND 700<p>

GUYS, WE DID IT WE'RE HERE THIS IS IT TEN-YEARS-LATER AND IT'S CANON

OMG WE MADE IT

* * *

><p>Sasuke was a fairly wild kid.<p>

Sasuke loved to run around, to play tag, to swim, to jump, to dance, and to scream. He hated staying still, hated sitting down, hated going to sleep, and much preferred being awake and enjoying life as much as he could. He loved being outside, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead, loved getting dirt in his nails and staining his paints with grass. He loved climbing trees, even if he got splinters, and petting stranger's dogs whenever he saw them, even if they were big and loved to lick and jump. Sasuke was a good kid, Sasuke was a happy kid.

He never expected his life to turn out the way it did, at that age: for his life to become so monotonous, for him to give up his dream of opening his own studio to become a high school teacher. He didn't have much of a choice in the matter, the pay was good and he was about to lose his apartment, but it didn't make it any less painful.

When Sasuke finally lost the adrenaline of being five-years-old and entered school, the first sedentary activity he fell in love with was coloring. He loved being the only person that could keep the colors between the lines, the only one who could tell the difference between indigo and violet, the only one who was able to use markers when nobody else could. Coloring was easy-peasy to him, coloring was something he could do leisurely, something he completed with ease.

And then, in third grade, he was able to go to art class, and his future was boundless from then on, absolutely endless with all the love he held in his heart for this little class. Sasuke fell in love with art before he could spell it, without reason or rational. Sasuke could never love a tree like he loved a crayon, could never love a pool like he loved a colored pencil, never love grass stains as much as he loved paint, never love a woman has much as he loved a crisp piece of white paper.

Until Sasuke met Karin.

Karin made Sasuke seem demure. Karin was anything she wanted to be, anything she needed to be, could create anything from a lump of clay and her hands. Her hair was fire, her eyes were hot chocolate, and her body was an hourglass, ticking like a bomb until his hands finally touched her. She was a piece of art, paints splattered on a canvas, a nonsensical woman with an honest heart and a sword for a tongue. How could he not fall in love with her?

With a woman like that came responsibility, though, and Karin may not have been everything Sasuke was looking for, but she was what Sasuke found. She was restless, with an awful temper, and never liked to be in one place for too long. She wouldn't settle, she was the sun and the clay was her earth, and the sun did not sit still; the sun breathed fire, warmed an entire galaxy, and the sun was powerful. Karin did not like to be told anything, and Karin did not want a partnership, Karin wanted a lover, a fighter, a traveler, an artist, a tortured soul, and Sasuke could not be these things.

Sasuke was an honest man, with a warm heart sheltered in a cool façade. His paint brush was an extension of his hand, and Sasuke settled. He grew calm with age, and learned to breathe in his muse, and exhale his color, and after moving around his entire young adult life, he was done. Sasuke wanted a home, he wanted a wife, he wanted a studio, and perhaps, children. He craved consistency, among other things, and the hollowness in his chest ached to be filled with love, not the world, any longer.

And Karin could not give him that, as much as he had wanted it, and as much as he had asked. She was slipping from his fingers more and more each day, begging to be released. He had asked her to stay, begged her to settle, to build a home with him, and she had considered, and she had made a space for herself in his bed, but she was falling through the cracks like liquid in an open palm, like paint running down a naked canvas.

He would wake up some mornings for work, and she would be there, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her hair strewn across her face, undone in wild curls—he always thought it was ironic that she wore her hair straight, and thin—and her clothes laying next to her on the floor. And sometimes, like this morning, he would wake to an empty bed.

He would look to his left, and her side would still be made. Her clothes would not be on the floor, and he would not find her sleeping on the couch, or on the chair, or next to her table stained with dyes and covered with residue from her medium. Perhaps he would not see her for days, or maybe he'd see her for breakfast, he never knew, and that wasn't enough for Sasuke.

Still, some mornings he would make two cups of coffee, just to see if it was still sitting on the table cold and abandoned when he got home that night.

* * *

><p>"Hello, beautiful." She shut her locker door and was greeted by her boyfriend, his eyes twinkling like gems in the afternoon light. He had a tiny smirk on his face, his extent of a smile, his cheeks dusted rose. "Why don't you skip out on your after school lesson today, and just come home with me?" he asked.<p>

She laughed, he seemed to be in a good mood. "You know I can't, Gaara, but I'll see you at four." She planted a kiss on his cheek, to which he went rigid. He wasn't very fond of public displays of affection, but sometimes, if she went for it, he wouldn't push her away.

This time, he did. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She faltered, before taking a step back. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"Yeah, of course you didn't realize." He frowned deeply, his forehead creasing in disdain. "Maybe you should pay more attention, maybe you should get to _know _me, but, no, you're too fucking busy staying after to doodle on some stupid canvas."

"No, Gaara, you _know_ that's not true—"

He cut her off with a growl. "Are you saying I'm stupid, now? Saying I'm wrong?"

She frowned. "No, I'm not."

"Don't bother coming over today, I don't want to see your disgusting face." As he passed by her, he slammed his body into her shoulder, nearly throwing her into the locker. The people left in the hallway didn't even spare them a glance.

She winced at the impact, she could nearly feel the bruise forming. Despite the immense pain growing in her shoulder, she called out for him, "Gaara, wait—"

"I said don't come," he repeated once more, and waved her off with a hand. "I'm starting to realize you're barely worth my time. Call me when you want to apologize and I'll see if I'm ready to forgive you." He disappeared into the turn of the hallway. She wanted a moment and he didn't come back.

She didn't go after him.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. _"It's getting very long,"_ she thought. "Maybe I should cut it…" she said aloud, twisting a long curl in-between her fingers.

"Maybe you should," another voice agreed, surprising her.

She jumped and turned around, a frown surfacing on her face, a long with a dark stain of red across her cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

Sasuke smirked. "I was coming to find you, you're almost twenty-minutes late," he reprimanded, and then added, "that's not like you, Sakura."

She glared. "You don't know me, you don't know what I'm like."

He shrugged. "You'd be surprised, Sakura. Like I said, I think we're very alike."

"And I think we're oil and vinegar," she deadpanned. He laughed quietly, obviously amused. Muttering a few curses to herself, she bent down to grab her bag, only to visibly wince and fall to her knees.

He immediately bent down beside her, trying to make eye contact. "Sakura? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Visibly wincing, she met his gaze with a glare. "I'm fine, don't worry about it." She grabbed her bag off the floor with her other arm and slung it over that shoulder with a small huff. She stood, him along with her, and passed right by him, walking towards the art wing. When he didn't budge, she looked back and raised an eyebrow. "Are you coming?"

He frowned. "Sakura, if you're hurt, it's my duty as your teacher to report it to the nurse."

"I'm not hurt, though!" she told him. "I'm just a little strained, I think I slept on it wrong."

"Why don't you take off your sweatshirt and let me see the damage?" he asked.

She immediately shook her head, almost frantically. "No, that's fine, I'm fine."

His frown deepened. "I can't force you to do anything, but I think it'd be better for both of us if you'd just let me see your shoulder."

She shook her head again. "I'm fine, really, don't worry about it."

He bit his lip. "If you were in that much pain just trying to lift your bag, I think you should have someone look at it, Sakura."

"No, really," she tried again. "I'd really rather not."

He sighed. "Alright." She sighed with relief, he noticed, which made his heart beat even quicker. "Come on, let's just go work on your project." He walked ahead of her, towards the classrooms, something turning in his stomach.

Something was definitely wrong, and if her pain wasn't an example of it, her drawings surely were.

* * *

><p>Sakura was getting better and better with each passing day. Every correction he gave her, she took both in accordance and in stride. She was easy to work with, much to his own ease, and took constructive criticism without question, using it to fuel her heart rather than her anger. She never got upset, and took every compliment to heart, no matter the size. Just as he had promised, every project she handed in she had gotten an A, but not without deserving.<p>

Her art had started out beautiful, and cathartic, but now it was simply stunning, enticing; he couldn't look away.

On top of her growing talent, he had even grown to enjoy her company. She was easily amused, with a giant sense of humor and a laugh like a melody. The only thing that could crack her shell was time, and they had all the time in the world. She loved classic rock, and hated country music, and her favorite color was blue. Her hair was natural, a faded red, and her eyes were just as big as her mothers, she told him. She actually wasn't very shy, but rather introverted, and only spoke when there was a reason to. Sakura loved to watch people, rather than involve herself, and Sakura loved her boyfriend. Sakura was a lover.

Sometimes, after school, he would run to the teacher's lounge and buy them soda's to share. Sometimes, she would share the little cakes she had made for dessert the night before. He would show her pieces of artwork he had come across, or leave her little poems to read that he knew she would appreciate. He would share his own work with her, and sometimes, he would even sketch her.

She was more than just a student to him, Sakura had become an indispensable relationship in his life. Sakura was his friend.

That's why it hurt him to see her in so much pain, to watch her eyes well with tears when she was thinking, to see her wince when she had gotten hurt once again. It pained him to see the discord in her eyes, or when she came to school with her crows feet far more purple than usual. It destroyed him that she only painted in black and white with red all over.

And it killed him that she wouldn't talk to him about it.

He frowned when he noticed her wince when she carefully moved her paintbrush. "Sakura, is something the matter?"

She shook her head, her short, pink bangs fluttering into her eyes. She had cut her hair months ago, and it was only now starting to grow again; she told him her hair grew very slowly, which had its perks. He thought she looked much better with short hair, anyway. "It seems you've hurt your wrist. Why don't you roll up your sleeves?"

"No, it's fine," she told him and offered a tiny smile. It was fake. "It doesn't hurt, really, my wrist is just tired from all this painting."

"If that's so, then you should have no problem with rolling up your sleeves and letting me take a look," he argued. He took a step closer to her and examined her tiny hands, her creators, and took notice of her sweatshirt secured almost half-way through her palm. "So, please, roll up your sleeves."

She shook her head again. "Really, I'm fine, let's just finish—"

"Sakura, roll up your sleeves," he said one more time.

"No, it's okay—"

"Sakura," his tone was suddenly icy, more demanding than asking, "I have seen you endure more than your fair-share of pain these past few months, now roll up your damn sleeves."

She winced. "You don't want me to, Sasuke."

He frowned, but at least he was getting somewhere. He didn't want to force her, he wanted her to want to, but it was getting to far. "Sakura, you can show me anything."

"But I _can't,"_ she argued. "You're my _teacher_, if something's wrong, you have to tell the administration!"

He grit his teeth. "Have I told them yet?"

"No, but—"

"Sakura, I don't want any 'buts,'" he said. "If I really wanted to tell them, I already would have, and whatever's going on, they would have forced you to tell them."

She frowned.

"Now, please," he took a step closer. "Can I see your wrist?"

She shut her eyes and slowly raised her hands toward the man, refraining from rolling the sleeve up. He pursed his lips, _"should I just do it myself?"_ he thought. _"Is this crossing a boundary?"_ Had he already crossed a boundary with her? He carefully took her hand into his, to which she visibly winced, causing his heart to pull at his insides. With his other hand, he slowly pulled up her sleeve.

Across her wrist was a large, purple bruise, vaguely in the shape of another hand. It was obvious that somebody had forcefully grabbed her wrist and yanked, but that wasn't what caused his jaw to fall.

It was the tiny, little scars marring her skin, staining them like scratches on marble, the cigarette burns, and the long-since-fresh scar that ran from the inside of her elbow to the bottom of her palm.

"Sakura…" he trailed off.

She tore her wrist from his grasp and yanked down her sweatshirt. "I have to go." She quickly moved away from the easel.

"Wait, Sakura, don't go," he called after her. He watched her as she gathered her things quickly off the desk, before heading straight to the door. He walked after her. "Sakura, please, come back!" he yelled, watching her as she ran down the empty hallway. He kept towards her, but she was gone before he could catch up.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at where she had left. The image plagued his mind of her arm, of her face, of her pain. His heart ached, beating against his chest like a drumstick to a drum, hurting him, but not as much as she's hurting, he thought.

He couldn't imagine the pain she was feeling, to do that to herself, but what disturbed him more was that he knew she couldn't have caused that bruise on her wrist on her own.

* * *

><p>He didn't see her at all the following week.<p>

He checked her attendance, and she was definitely in school, just simply avoiding him. It hurt him, it made him want to scream, it nearly broke his heart.

He hadn't seen Karin in over a week, either. He had stopped making coffee for her.

Late, Friday, he wandered the hallways after the bell and rang. The school was desolate, who'd want to be there at three o'clock on a Friday? _"Those who don't have anyone to go home to,"_ he mused. It was when he turned the corner that he saw him.

All long limbs and red hair, how could it not be him? His frowned, _"what's he doing here this late?"_ He thought. It was the first time he had seen him, Gaara. She talked about him often, about his desert-hair, his long legs, and his skinny body. It absolutely _had_ to be him, wearing all black, walking like a zombie—he was always exhausted, she said, always tired, never slept, _couldn't_ sleep.

"Gaara?" he called out. The boy turned slightly, but didn't respond, so he called again. "Gaara Sabaku?"

He fully turned towards him and raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

Sasuke thought for a second. "Yes, actually, you can," he decided. He moved closer toward the boy, but said nothing.

Gaara sighed. "Okay, with what?" he asked, seemingly attempting to amuse the teacher's qualm.

"You haven't seen Sakura today, have you?" he question.

Suddenly, the boy's eyes set into a glare, and his body went rigid. "She's not with you?"

Sasuke immediately realized he had said something wrong. "She was, earlier," he lied. Lied right through his teeth. "But then she said she had to run somewhere, quickly, and it's almost been ten minutes, so I went off to look from her."

His glare became heavier, meaner, his body like ice. "You can't keep track of your students, Mr. Uchiha?"

Sasuke frowned. "I trust my students to take care of themselves, but she has a lesson with me that she's avoiding, I guess," he lied again.

"Sakura…" Gaara trailed off for a moment. "Sakura can be a little stupid."

Sasuke pursed his lips. "I disagree, Sakura is very smart."

Gaara laughed, it was almost sickening. Sasuke saw it, though, saw what Sakura could have seen in him, maybe at some point—he was tall, lanky, and handsome, with a deep voice, and a mysterious way about him, but while Sakura may have fallen for his mysteriousness, Sasuke easily caught on with his dishonesty. There was something very incredibly wrong with Gaara, and it was something Gaara could easily get away with behind looks and charm. "You don't know Sakura like I do, she does _very_ stupid things."

"Like what?" asked Sasuke.

"I guess you'll never have to know," Gaara told him. "You're not the one that has to deal with her."

Sasuke leaned up against the lockers and sighed. "Maybe you should stay away from her, Gaara."

He scoffed. "And who the fuck are you to tell me that?"

"Your superior." Sasuke stood, tall.

"Outside of school, you have no control over me," Gaara said. "I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you can't stop me."

Sasuke turned around, walking back towards his classroom. He could feel the vomit reaching his esophagus, the tremors beginning in his hands, the fear boiling over like a hot pot of spaghetti in his head. "Perhaps that's true," he whispered.

He turned the corner and nearly started sprinting for his classroom. He could feel the sweat building at his hairline, his bangs flying back into the rest of his hair. Everything hurt. He turned into his classroom and skidded to a stop, it was completely empty. _"God dammit,"_ he thought, _"what the hell is wrong with me?"_

Sakura was a student, a terribly pained one, but a student, nonetheless. He felt his heart begin to calm. She's just a student, and what he did just then, was going to far, no matter what he suspected that boy had done to her. It could have been anyone, or maybe she really did just fall and hurt herself, maybe he was overreacting. Sakura was a student, a friend, and he had nothing to do with this problem.

He sighed loudly, openly. He wanted to scream. He craved to shut the door and scream out the window, until he had no more breaths, until his lungs gave out, but instead, he headed straight for the supply closet. He flicked on the light and walked in, frowning. _"This place is a mess,"_ he thought. He had to keep himself occupied.

He bumped into one of the messy shelves and knocked over the entirety of it, straight onto the floor. It made a large _'crash!'_ as it hit the ground, the supplies rolling around. He sighed. _"I deserve this,"_ he thought. _"When did everything become so… messy?"_

He considered calling his girlfriend for a moment, before resigning and sitting in the ground, collecting the colored pencils into their bucket. Everything was just as he had left it when he first started teaching, and it was already almost march.

A half hour later, after sitting in silence and collecting pencils off the floor, a noise broke him from his silent mantra.

He heard his door creak open, but did not rise. He listened for a moment, waiting to see if it was simply the wind, or a perhaps a mistake, before a tiny voice broken the silence, "Sasuke? Hello?"

He jumped to his feet. _"Sakura."_

He didn't make a move from the closet. He heard her soft footsteps on the linoleum, looking around the classroom. "Sasuke? Hello?" she called again. He didn't respond. He heard her coming closer and closer to the supply closet, but his feet were glued to the floor. He couldn't make a move, he couldn't speak, he could barely breathe. Her footsteps came to a stop at the doorframe, a frown on her face. "Jeez, you could have at least responded if you heard me," she said, finally seeing him in the dim light of the craft closet.

He was at a loss for words. There she was, in all her pink-haired, black-sweatshirt-ed glory. She looked calm, and exhausted, like she always did. She still wore her sleeve to her palm, meaning the bruise probably hadn't faded. He wanted to scream. What was she doing here, now? At almost four-thirty in the afternoon? What if he hadn't been here? Would she have just wandered around the school, waiting for him for two-and-a-half hours, only for him to not be there? He wanted to yell, or leave, but instead, he felt laughter building in his throat.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and stepped into the craft closet. "Are you going to respond?"

He chuckled. "Are you kidding me?" he asked. _"I _could have responded?" He took a step towards, suddenly overwhelmed with himself. "Sakura, I haven't seen you in a _week_!" The volume of his voice was much louder than he had intended, and she had taken note. She took a step back, he took another step forward. "You finally show me what the hell is going on in your life, after knowing you for _months,_ and then you just run away?" he yelled. "Just like that? As if nothing happened?" She took another step back, he took another step forward. "Like there was nothing on your arm, like nobody hurt you, like _you_ hadn't hurt you!?"

She took one last step back only to be greeted with a shelf. She could feel the cold aluminum against her back; her only other way out was the door, but her feet were glued to the ground. She was used to conflict, used to escaping, used to know what to do, but she was in shock.

He took another step forward, "How could you _do_ that, Sakura?" One more. "I—I don't understand," he admitted. He took one, last step forward. There was a hair of a space between them, she could feel his breath on her face, feel the heat of his body, see the pain in his eyes, the sweat on his skin, the frustration twisted on his lips.

"I'm sorry," she offered.

And with that, he pressed his lips against hers.

* * *

><p>When Sasuke got home, Karin was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. Her bright hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck, and the shell of her ear. She had her big, black glasses on, hanging on the tip of her nose. She looked shiny, sticky with sweat, and was barely wearing any clothes.<p>

Sasuke sighed, she had probably just gotten back from the gym. He didn't even have time to notice how beautiful she had looked, ready for him to take on the kitchen table, to throw the coffee out of her hands and kiss her senselessly. He didn't have time to ask her how her day was, be thankful that she was finally home, ask her where she had been, what she had been doing. He didn't have time to drag her to their bedroom, and hold her up against him, and tell her he wanted to make this work, wanted to love her, wanted to marry her, like he always did after she showed up.

Sasuke just sighed.

She clucked her tongue and offered him a sweet smile. "Did you miss me, Sasuke, baby?" she asked. "Did you think of me?"

He sat down across from her at the table. His eyes were devoid of any emotion, and he smelled like acrylic paints.

She laughed. "Sasuke, love, I think you need a shower," she leaned into the table, exposing her cleavage, "I think _we_ need a shower."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

She leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips. "Are you okay, Sasuke?"

"Yes," he lied. And then he thought for a moment, and said, "Actually, no, I'm not."

Shocked, she looked up from her coffee. "What's wrong? You know you can tell me anything."

"You haven't been home in over a week," he said. "And even so, you've only been home for four days this month, and I was asleep, or at work for all of them."

"I seem to remember you waking up for a little while," said Karin with a wink.

He frowned. "That's not the point, Karin. I'm not with you for sex, I'm with you because I thought you loved me," his frown deepend, "and I thought I loved you."

Her eyes suddenly filled with concern, which broke his heart. She should've been concerned from the start. Her eyes should've looked like that _weeks_ ago, _months_ ago, _years_ ago. "You don't love me?"

He scoffed. "I can't love someone who's not there."

"But I'm there, Sasuke," she told him, "I'm always there."

"No, you're not." The words felt like venom on his tongue. He wanted to scream, but screaming never got him anywhere. "You're never there, Karin. You're never _anywhere_. You never answer your _fucking_ phone," he listed, "you're never in the _fucking_ bed when I wake up, you're never here for _fucking_ dinner, you're _not_ a part of my life," he said. "And you haven't been for a very long time."

"Sasuke—"

"No, let me finish!" he cut her off. "I told you what I wanted, Karin. A wife, a studio, a family!" he yelled. "I told you from the _start_, and that you _didn't _have to stay, and you stayed!" he screamed. He stood up and began pacing around the kitchen, barely making eye contact. "And you _stayed_," he repeated. "I told you to leave, but you led me on. You made me think you'd marry me one day, you made me think we'd have _kids_ one day. I'm twenty-eight-years-old!" he sat back down, and he was suddenly making eye-contact with her. "You're thirty! We've been together for ten years! If we had wanted kids be now, we would've had them. If we had wanted to get married by now, we would've."

She was speechless.

"And now I kissed someone else," he admitted. He wanted to say his heart had broken, but that had happened long ago. He wasn't sure if he told her this because he wanted her to know, he wanted her to hurt, he wanted her to be in as much pain as he was, or if he was guilty—hell, he wasn't even sure _if_ he was guilty whatsoever; it was barely a relationship, anyway. "I kissed someone else. I kissed her and she kissed me back," he repeated.

Karin's eyes softened. "She did?"

He nodded. "She kissed me back," he said again. "And I don't know how I feel about her, but she's tangible, she's attainable, and she's not you."

"You used to always say I was everything you wanted," she started with a soft smile. Her eyes were not broken, and neither was her heart. "That I was everything you needed in a woman, but you're not that person anymore, Sasuke." She stood from the table and walked her mug over to the sink, pouring the contents down the drain, watching as the coffee swirled into nothing. She turned back to him. "You haven't been that person for a while."

He held is breath.

"I'll leave tonight, okay?" she offered with a smile. "I mean, I wasn't planning on sleeping here, anyway. I'll leave, for good." She began walking towards the hallway that lead to the bedroom. "It's for the best."

"It's for the best," he agreed, suddenly calming.

She turned around quickly from the hallway and made her way back towards him. She squared down, in front of chair, and pushed her lips against his. She pulled away. "How did that feel?" she asked.

He smiled softly. "It didn't."

She laughed. "Sasuke Uchiha, you are a strange man," said Karin. "How can someone who was once so stoic have turned into such a great man as you?"

He smiled. "You don't have to leave, Karin."

"But I do," she said once more. "And you won't miss me. That hole you're feeling?" She pointed to his chest. "Is _because_ I'm here. It will start to fill."

He nodded.

"I'm not the one," she told him. "And you'll find the one, I promise. You _deserve_ the one." She began walking towards the hall once more, before looking back at him. "Just, promise me something."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You'll stay in touch?" she asked, before adding, "I'm promise I'll answer my phone."

He laughed softly, a laugh she hadn't heard in a while. "Of course I will."

She left down the hallway, and he thought, if he never saw her again, he'd be okay. Perhaps it never occurred to him that he could live without her, that maybe the ache was there not because she wasn't there enough, but because he needed her to leave for good. Maybe she was right, and maybe she was one of the most beautiful people he had ever met in his life; this wild woman, with fiery hair and dark eyes, and a heart the size of the empire state building, overflowing with passion and talent, but maybe that wasn't what he needed. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong.

* * *

><p>The next day in art class was unbearable.<p>

It never occurred to him that kissing his student was a bad idea. He liked her, and when you like someone, you kiss them, right? At the time, she was Sakura, and he was Sasuke, and so they were, and he pressed his lips to her soft, thin, pink ones and she pressed hers back, knitting her tiny hands into his hair, pressing her body against his—

He coughed. "Alright, class," he greeted, "just… work on whatever it is you're working on, okay?"

Some nodded, some didn't respond, but they all immediately got to work. He couldn't complain, they were a great class, but, to be fair, this was also most of their futures: art. This is what they did. They drew, they painted, they sculpted, and they were passionate about it—and, they listened. They were respectful, at least tried the things he taught them, and even if he didn't like them, they were never hesitant to ask questions. Some of his "easier" classes of the day barely did that, along with choruses of conversations and enough snarky comments to last a lifetime.

He cleared his through again. "Sakura?" he called, and looked over a sea of brunette and blonde for pink. She looked up from her sketchbook and raised an eyebrow. "Can I speak to you, quickly?"

She quickly walked up to the front desk. She, thank God, seemed just as nervous as him, with shaky fingers and twitchy lips. She offered him a smile. "What's up, Sasuke?"

"Are you coming after school today?" he asked quickly, in a hushed whisper.

She raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "Why are we whispering?" she whispered back.

He sighed. "You're right," he said. "Why _are_ we whispering?"

She laughed. "This is some new territory we're treading on, certainly."

He smiled; her laugh was like a song, he wish he could keep it on repeat. "You have a very nice laugh," he told her.

She gagged. "What? No!" Her face turned the same color as her hair.

"_She's adorable,"_ he thought.

She pursed her lips. "I'll be there after school," she told him. "We should…" she trailed off.

"Talk," he finished for her, with a tiny frown on his face.

"Yeah, talk," she agreed. And she offered him another tiny smile, which she, like a lamp switch, turned off immediately after. "I'll see you then." She scurried back to her seat quickly and buried herself back into her work.

He sighed, carefully keeping his eye on her as to not let anyone else see. How had he gotten this involved with her? She was an amazing artist, with a talent he hadn't seen on most adults who'd painted their whole lives. Her work _spoke_ to him, like no other work had spoken to him before, and through _grayscale_. He was a painter, a painter who colored life onto canvas, with beautiful blues, and yellows, and greens, and here he was, fascinated with these works of pain, of misfortune, of unadulterated sadness, and they were beautiful. _She_ was beautiful.

He chewed on his bottom lip. _"Who the hell has pink hair?"_ He thought. He remembered seeing her on the first day, skimming over her head like any other student, and then stopping to admire such a color. She was cute enough, he had thought, but nothing striking, other than the ridiculous hair. She was just any other student. And then he had seen her work, who she was; it was like he knew her, her pain, that ache in her heart that you simply can't _curb_ without even having to know her, and it was _incredible._ He didn't need to know her, he never needed to talk to her, or interact with her, because her work was enough. Her work was her own out-of-body experience.

How could he not fall in love with her?

* * *

><p>"What the fuck have you been doing after school?" he asked her suddenly, slamming her locker closed. Her hands barely missed being smashed in the collision. She automatically gave him all her attention. "Answer the fucking question."<p>

She frowned. "I told you, I've been with Sasuke—"

"Sasuke, huh?" he questioned, a smirk suddenly dawning on his face. "Unbelieveable. _Sasuke._ Well, guess who I spoke to the other day, Sakura? Just fucking guess."

She grimaced.

"You're absolutely right!" he said before she could even respond. _"Sasuke,_ that fucking art teacher. What the _fuck_ have you been telling him, Sakura? Please, _enlighten me."_

She opened her mouth to respond. She stared around for a second at the empty hallway, the sun was bursting through the open windows, creating a glare in her eyes. Everything happened so quickly, she hadn't even realized she had hit the ground. Suddenly, a stinging pain seared through her cheek. "Did you…" she paused, thinking. "Did you just hit me?" She looked up at him, tears she didn't even know were falling soaking her hands.

He glared down at her. "You didn't answer my fucking question, Sakura."

"_How is this possible?" _she thought. _"Where is everybody?"_ She looked down the hallway, but it was completely empty. _"Doesn't anybody cut class anymore?"_ "I—I—"

He lifted his leg and kicked her in the stomach, immediately knocking the wind out of her. She felt like she had stopped breathing, had stopped _existing_ for a moment. The pain was absolutely unbearable; she had forgotten about her cheek, which was easily beginning to bruise. She grabbed her stomach and groaned in pain, falling on her side in the fetal position.

He frowned. "Next time you do something like that, I'll kill you. Remember, Sakura, I'm the only one you have. I _love_ you." She heard his combat boots make contact with the hall as he walked, unable to see, blinded by the pain. He sighed. "Go home, you look terrible," he added, before turning the corner.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


End file.
